


bound by love into a single volume

by gootarts



Category: Umineko no Naku Koro ni | When the Seagulls Cry
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 10:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16196147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gootarts/pseuds/gootarts
Summary: You'd think that peering into the woman's soul would let Battler know what Beatrice would want as a gift. At least, that is what Kanon thought before he'd asked for advice about it.





	bound by love into a single volume

Years of working for the Ushiromiyas had prepared Kanon to instantly recognize the posture of somebody who was going to pester him for something. There was a certain aura, a certain way they carried themselves that foretold some sort of request, a way that Battler was currently imitating perfectly, despite barely having been in the smoking room for a minute. He sighs, and puts down the crossword he was doing to take a glance over at one Territory Lord encroaching on his space.

With the conclusion of the sixth game, he’d been granted transcendence; he was no longer furniture, in every sense of the word. With that came separation from the duties of a servant. Battler had since tended to give gentle reminders that _hey, this place is magic, you don’t need to set the table or tidy the couch_ , but small acts of housekeeping were still something he unconsciously drifted towards. Nothing as intensive as handwashing everybody's dishes (there was magic for that), but doing his part to keep things tidy-setting the table, doing laundry, things any respectable housemate would do without asking. Small things like that which Battler apparently interpreted as servant work, despite the fact that both of their standards for cleanliness were nowhere near what Lady Natsuhi’s had been. Even though they were technically ‘even’ with his opening Erika’s locked room, he still considers helping out at least partially necessary.

Either way, there was only so much that favor had gotten him, as evidenced by Battler trying as unobtrusively as a very large elephant in a very small room to ask him some sort of question. 

“...Yes?” 

The redhead pretends to be surprised as Kanon notices him, before awkwardly putting a hand down on the table. He knows enough about Battler to know when he’s trying to play down some sort of important question. 

“Ah, Kanon! I was wondering…does Beato consider late November to be her birthday?” There’s an awkward, embarrassed half-smile on his face. 

The question is a bit out of left field, but one that makes sense, in theory. Even separate, the three of them-Shannon, Beatrice, and himself do share the same memories of their first nineteen years of life. He knows the core of Beatrice’s heart as well as she does, so he can answer personal questions to a moderate degree of accuracy. 

On the other hand, it had...side effects. Memories and feelings were both pieces of somebody’s heart, fragments so intertwined that they two of them, combined, more often than not created a whole. Even if it wasn’t intended, not technically part of Kanon’s ‘character’, one of the reasons he was granted existence in the first place, brought into being by a witch, was because pining over Battler had shattered her heart. That feeling was a part of him as much as his grey hair, his blue eyes. 

As a result, even though Jessica shines like the sun to him, there’s still a faint glow to Battler, like the warm embers of a hearth. As if merely by standing next to him when he is shining his brightest, Kanon’s soul will be warmed in turn. It’s different than Jessica’s all-encompassing radiance, yes, but while embers are warm, only the sun can bring day. If he truly had to choose between the two, he would pick her in a heartbeat, just like how Shannon would pick George. 

There were worse crushes out there, at least. He’s mostly just happy that Battler _finally_ ended up completing Beatrice’s game, that she’s happy and with him. Shannon and Beatrice herself are similar in that, he notices (or to be more precise, pretends not to notice, as Shannon slips the witch home-cooked versions of Battler’s favorite foods, or when copies of Jessica's favorite old records ‘magically’ appear on his bedside table)-they all want the other two to be happy with their partners. Which, in his case, means dealing with Battler’s awkward questions. 

“Yes, she does...and _yes_ , she’ll want a present.” He notes Battler take a seat across from him, and that he already knows what his next question will be. 

“What kinds of things do you think she’d want?” Which, of course, brings him to ask the reason he probably started the conversation in the first place. Asking Beatrice what she wanted would take away some of the surprise, even if it meant a gift she wanted. Asking Kanon, on the other hand, would ensure a) at the very least, avoiding some secret pet peeve of Beato’s, and b) keep the contents of any present a secret. All in all, not that bad a plan, but one that gives him pause. 

“...Wouldn’t asking Shannon be better for this?” He doesn’t mind fielding the questions, but...he feels awkward answering them. 

“I guess, but...” he gives a small, awkward grin, “I know it sounds stupid, but you’re a guy, right? It’s easier to talk to you about this kinda thing.”

Kanon sighs. Specifically, Kanon loudly sighs, to fully convey the point of how ridiculous what Battler just said was. There’s some grain of true, not-entirely-competent sincerity to his words and body language that brings back memories of 1980, of a bolstering, smiling 12-year-old who’d proudly proclaimed a vow that he’d ignored, no, _forgotten_ , as she’d waited for him to return. But it’s the small things-the cute, awkward grin; the awkwardly drawing his shoulders back, that bring up those memories. It was the small things that had enamored her to him, both back then and now. There’s a certain numbness in his heart as he recalls the second game, the fact that this man had ended up defending somebody he’d just met, who by all accounts should’ve been thrown under the bus the second the question of whodunnit came up. 

“I mean, you both have Beato’s heart, but, well...it’s easier to talk to you about these things than Shannon.” He tries gesturing, something that quickly turns into vaguely nonsensical flailing. It is, in many ways, both ridiculous and endearing, something so purely _Battler_ that he can’t help but feel a small smile briefly flash across his face. A moment later, he finds himself chuckling, much to the redheaded-no, red-faced, Territory Lord’s embarrassment. The blush persists even after Kanon summons a tea set in a flash of gold, though it fades as he slowly pours out drinks for both of them, pretending not to notice how flustered he is. 

“What exactly were you planning?” Even as he lifts the saucer, setting it down next to Battler, he feels the vestiges of the smile on his lips, and slowly reaches into his memories to gauge what type of things that Battler is able to make, and what types of things Beato would want. There isn’t much overlap; Beatrice cares more about experiences than physical objects, most of the time. 

“...Chocolate, maybe? I had a couple ideas, but they’re not really good on their own.” 

The answer tells him a couple things: that he probably had some sort of experience planned but wanted to supplement it with food, or perhaps that he didn’t _know_ what she’d want, and thought that Kanon would know some secret thing she’d always pined for. 

Beatrice, on the other hand, was a lot simpler than that, at times. That was luckily one of those times.

“How old is she turning, again?” 

“Twent-” he pauses in the middle of saying the legal drinking age, “are you saying she’ll want to get drunk?”

He pauses in the middle of a sip. 

“...Maybe.” It’s an option. He can’t say with absolute certainty-he is not Lambdadelta, nor does he want to be-but as far as physical, tangible options go, something she can eat is always a safe choice. He trusts Battler enough to know what types of experiences she’d want, especially since he’s relatively certain he very much does not want the extended details on most of them. “You _know her_. What does she like?”

The question puzzles him for a moment, as he glances up at the sky in an effort to recall. There’s no complaint over Kanon not directly answering the question; he has the unconscious understanding that answers to anything involving Beatrice weren’t typically handed out like party favors. The importance was not in being handed the answer, but in understanding the other-he was just acting as a sounding board. 

“She likes food, but Ronove can always make that...aside from that, she’s not too materialistic, and she’s read basically every mystery novel in this fragment, so even then...” He ticks off the points on his fingers, one, two, three, before squinting, trying to bore a hole through them. “I could write something for her? Would she like that?”

Kanon takes a sip of tea, meeting his eyes across the table.

“What do you think?” 

“...Maybe? She’s a lot better at solving this sort of this than me, though! Didn’t you see her against Bern? She managed to kill that massive hydra in the blink of an eye!” There’s a kind of awe in his words, the kind of which is commonly invoked by hobbyist athletes comparing their skill to olympic medalists. He almost has to hide his smile behind the teacup-they truly were good matches for each other. If a smorgasbord of obscure, borderline unfair mysteries thrown at her in the blink of an eye wasn’t enough to faze her, a tale crafted by an amateur writer probably stood half a chance at best. 

Slowly, he weighs his options, considers how much free time he typically has, and sighs again. 

“If you’re really so worried about her seeing through your tricks, you can ask me to edit it.” While not on the level Beatrice is, he still knows the ins and outs of the genre. If he can guess the answer from a mere glance, Beatrice can do the same. 

“Really?” Battler’s face lights up at the offer, so much so that he almost has to stop himself from smiling as well. 

He has memories of writing novels, and Battler has written his own in the past, for Beatrice and Ange, even if he had a couple reservations about the mystery itself for the former and characterization for the latter. It couldn’t be _that_ bad, and even if it did turn out awful..writing a novel was akin to tearing out one’s own beating heart, staining the pages with the crimson ink of emotion. He half-wants to know what Battler, given no stipulations, no gameboard rules to follow aside from the 10 laws of Knox, would write. 

How bad could it possibly be? 

 

He gets a rough draft maybe a week later. It’s not a long story, but the length isn’t a problem. Some of Christie’s most notoriously difficult puzzles were published not under their own books, but as short stories in magazines. 

But Battler is not a particularly good writer. The core howdunnit isn’t bad, but the execution is awful. It was something he was half-expecting, after viewing both gameboards that he’d made-the sixth game was good, but the final one had...botched characterization, at best. He makes a note of the issues (many) in the margins in red pen before handing it back to a man who clearly was expecting a gentler copy-editor. 

“Is it really _that_ bad?” It’s almost comical how his whole body starts drooping when he pores over the notes, which rangefrom minor grammar corrections to entire paragraphs crossed out with the only comment being ‘reword’. Kanon can almost feel a pained aura encompassing the room, so he coughs, trying to perk up his shoulders and at least moralize him again. 

“It’s okay. But your delivery of the clues is incredibly obvious, and your framing of the suspects makes the culprit stand out more than necessary. The base writing is good.” The howdunnit has been done before, but not very often, and not the specific way Battler does it. It’s possible to get something good out of it, but it would mean heavy editing of the fluff, and changing the wording so that it doesn’t mirror the existing works that use the same trick. 

Moreover, the story is _interesting_. There’s a heart to it that shines through the core of the story, one that he’s ever-so-careful not to touch, one he’s not sure Battler even knows exists. The words on the page radiate the kind of energy Battler himself does, almost warming the page itself. 

 

 

It takes a half-dozen more rounds of edits before he’s fairly sure the story Battler has written will at least challenge Beatrice. He’s careful not to add too much of his own words into the story; there is a balance to it, preserving the heart and scrapping the fat, the obvious clues, the unsubtle foreshadowing that draws almost glowing arrows pointing to the cook as the culprit. But in the end, he manages to help Battler wrangle the story into one that, by his standards, is at least good. 

He watches Battler as he invokes his magic, turning the pages into something tangible, a small, shimmering Fragment that drops into his outstretched hand. As he wraps it tight, placing it tenderly besides a small bottle of wine and a handwritten note inside a gift bag. 

“You might want to consider wrapping that,” he says, glancing over at the gifts. All in all, wine and a story are a set of gifts he knows that she’ll enjoy. “Beato likes to unwrap things.”

‘Likes to’ would probably be an understatement; watching her tear off wrapping paper is akin to giving a starving wolf a bloody hunk of meat. Battler tilts his head for a moment, but only for a moment as he realizes that yes, she was entirely that type of person. 

He gives that radiant smile again as he gently claps him on the shoulder. Kanon automatically tenses as the hand makes contact. Even though he knows Battler is physically affectionate, it still catches him by surprise every time he goes in for a hug or a tap on the back. Battler freezes too, when he notices Kanon’s deer-in-headlights pose. 

“Ah, sorry! A-are you okay?” He doesn’t miss the note of panic in Battler’s voice as his hand darts away. 

“I’m fine,” he says, brushing off his uniform where Battler had touched him. 

“Sorry, I just...” he sighs, letting the sentence trail off. “Sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Your next birthday is early October, right?”

Even if it was 11 months away, Battler was understanding enough to not mention that the exact date was during a family conference, though Kanon can sense in the air how easily the conversation can turn south again. So he gives a small chuckle, crossing his arms in some sort of half-amused posture. There is one thing that he has learned from Beatrice that breaks the tension more than easily-gently poking fun at him.

“And you’ll be hitting up your wife to ask for gift ideas then, I presume?” 

“H-hey, say what you want, that sort of thing works!” He’s blushing again, giving a small smile of acknowledgement that yes, Beatrice would probably get similarly awkward questions in almost a years’ time. 

 

 

The day itself isn’t really much. He wakes up to it like every other one, washes his face, and heads to the smoking room to leave a small, handmade box of chocolate on the table. Beatrice’s name is written in cursive with the best penmanship he can manage on the cover, with his signature on the lower end of the box. He’s not worried about anybody snatching her present as he departs, as there exists nobody in this fragment who would dare eat her gifts, not even Beelzebub.

At the very least, Ronove appears to have prepared more than enough food for everybody, so he’s able to snag the early iterations of breakfast that didn’t turn out as aesthetically pleasing as Ronove had hoped in exchange for lending a hand for a short while.

 

When he opens the door to the outside of the manion to read in the arbor, he almost gasps. The sky that day looks as if somebody has taken a brush and colored the entire sky the clearest, most vivid shade of sapphire he has seen in his life. Even without any wisps of white blocking out the vibrant skyline, the weather is cool, almost as if it is the first day of fall. It must be Battler’s doing, he reasons; even if he isn’t the one it was intended for, it’s still gorgeous. 

The book he’d brought with him is long enough that by the time he’s almost finished with it, the sky has begun to slowly turn a soft yellow near the horizon, giving way slowly to purples and pinks, the clouds gathering to throw the light almost like a kaleidoscope in the garden. 

 

He hears the soft screeee of the mansion doors opening, and two sets of voices. The sound is enough to make him quickly gather up the few things he’d brought outside, sneaking over to the edge of the rose garden in the half-darkness. There is only one set of people who would be going to the rose garden, this time of night, and he does not want to disturb them. 

He’s got the vantage point to watch as Battler clears out a section of dirt and drapes a massive comforter over the earth, kneeling down and patting besides him a moment later, an invitation to sit down. 

He watches Beatrice take a seat, toeing out of her shoes and carefully settling her massive dress onto the blanket, before Battler opens his hands. In a blaze of gold, the poorly wrapped gift bag-wine and fragment. He almost has to look away from the carnage as she tears the two open, pausing as the dim light of the fragment begins to poke through the paper, then slowly, delicately, peeling the rest off. She holds the fragment up to the light of the dimly glowing sun, and while he can’t see her face from the angle he’s at, Kanon swears he sees her smile as she snuggles up to him, head on his shoulder, activating the fragment in an almost blinding burst of light.

It’s a lovely scene, he thinks, the two of them under a sky that looks rent from a painting, the glow softly illuminating the two of them, so focused on the scene before them that they do not notice when he squeaks the front doors open to slip back inside.


End file.
